


The Three Things Under The Suit of His Lover

by FugalGear



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (Not Smut!), Comfort, Generic Mormor, M/M, Sexual Violence, They're lonely, but they have each other, idk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 01:20:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FugalGear/pseuds/FugalGear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian never speaks to Jim about the things that the man hides under his expensive clothing, but then again, he never has to.</p><p>Just some musings of mine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Three Things Under The Suit of His Lover

I.

They were rough during sex. That might be the understatement of the year-- but true all the same. It was more of struggle for dominance than maso-sadism-- laying side-by-side, bruised and bloody was not the final result of a kinky round of sex, and had nothing to do with the desire to be harmed. It had everything to do with power. Control. Sex was, by a seemingly taciturn agreement, the only release for the anger and frustration they collected in their frantic lives. There was a tension that built, a foreboding sense of mortality that came with their line of work. Somehow the forcefulness, the teeth and knives, scratches and burn marks was the only practical way to relieve them of this tension. They tumbled around like bumper cars, rocketing into each other, repelling each other, and it made them feel alive.

This is why, when Jim emerged from the bathroom each morning (face cleansed and hair freshly gelled) Sebastian admired how his stupid, tailored suit hid the scratches, welts and bruises so perfectly. He smiled at the secrecy of it, the marred flesh under Jim's flawless reputation. Sebastian, shirtless (always shirtless, clothes were to confining, and he was a show-off, anyway), turned to retrieve the toast from the toaster. Jim's soft eyes traced lazily across his chest-- where he had far more scars than the criminal-- the corner of his mouth raised into a lopsided smile. The sniper turned to greet him, however noted the thoughtful look on the man's face and said nothing. Jim's eyes went over him once, twice, body a motionless statue except for his toes, which he had a habit of tapping. Sebastian can feel him counting them, searching out the marks he had given his employee, looking longingly at the old ones, the remnants of war and work and crime.

Sebastian did not move either, becoming equally still. The moment was refreshing and sacred, and when Jim slid his eyes to meet Sebastian's, they shared a conspiratorial yet affectionate smile. Jim sat at the breakfast bar with his tea, and Sebastian returned to making his coffee. The moment was silent and beautiful, words that would never be shared out loud swirled around them both in the warm, morning air. 

Considering that neither considered themselves conventional men, marriage hardly crossed their minds. Their scars, exchanged in the heights of anger and passion... these were their vows to each other. The promise that Jim is Sebastian's and that Sebastian is his, and they cherish these moments when they think of the other's scars. Because they know how much they've done for each other, for better or worse. Because vows are meant to be sacred, cherished, and permanent. 

II.

Sebastian held back a sigh. He had accompanied Jim to a negotiation and _really_ , his boss should hear himself speak sometimes. Still, there was something incredibly sexy about the Irishman's voice, whether it was spewing out threats, playing hard-to-get, or bestowing praise. The bodyguard was behind Jim, diagonally to his left, poised to take action should anything unexpected occur. He glanced at Jim's trousers, allowing himself the pleasure of mentally removing the gray suit bottoms. Sebastian almost chuckled, and the smile that graced his face was subtle and fleeting. 

He knew for a fact that Jim was wearing suspenders and stalkings under his suit-- black and red garments that Sebastian always thought made his legs look absolutely gorgeous. He wondered briefly what the occasion was, feeling his cock stir when he realized that Jim would have shaved his legs, too. He decided that the next moment he got his boss alone, Sebastian would tear off Jim's trousers and ravish those touchable, sexy fucking legs. No doubt Jim would be prancing around in heels when he got home and-- this is not helping his situation at all-- the way the muscles in the criminal's legs moved as he strode, forced on the balls of his feet turned the bodyguard on like nobody's business.

Sebastian blinked back to the reality that only Jim could have noticed him exit. His boss was a hard person to figure out. He was fairly certain that Jim was sexist to the point of misogyny, so the clothes were not empowering in a feminine way, right? He figured his boss was a smug little bastard who knew how fantastic he looked in lingerie. Or something. He had no fucking idea, really, but they both got off on it and he was hardly able to deduce Jim's motivations for even a fraction of what he did, so why try now? 

III.

Sebastian had endless patience, but even a job like this was borderline ridiculous. It was an hour away from London proper, and he was tasked to be stationed in position for an indefinite amount of time. The informant obviously had the wrong sources, he thought bitterly, yet Jim sent him packing on the train regardless. One would have to be hard-pressed to get Jim to admit he had flaws in his network, however Sebastian now sat in an abandoned flat as testament to the lack of information. He drew his jacket in tighter, scolding himself.  
"You're getting weak, Moran," the sniper mumbled, reminding himself that this is nothing compared to Afghan sands or Indian jungles, that he's handled worse. Still, he hated the cold, and was growing weary, the unfavorable conditions making him tired. His body had long since conditioned itself to scalding temperatures and humidity. This was definitely not his cuppa. 

Twenty-five hours, he'd been here. Twenty-five hours and it was the dawning of the twenty-sixth when his ears perked up at the sound of footsteps. Sebastian honed in and heard and smelled, and knew who it was without even a sideways glance. 

He mumbled, "hey, Boss," from the corner of his mouth as he rechecked his sights. Jim unfolded a small chair to his left, and when Sebastian leaned back from his rifle, Jim offered him a thermos of coffee. Sebastian raised a brow, but accepted it nonetheless. 

"Should I be worried that you're here, Jim? Surprise assessment?" 

"Can't check up on my favorite sniper?" replied the criminal. Sebastian took a thoughtful sip from the warm thermos that he was cradling in his hands, and accepted Jim's reasoning. He knew what Jim was really saying: couldn't he visit his Tiger, who was bearing the brunt of his pride?

It wasn't the appropriate situation for banter or small talk (not that there was such a thing as small talk when it came to Jim), so Sebastian watched the window across the street, and Jim pulled his chair flush to Sebastian's. The sniper felt the weight of a fleece blanket as it was draped around his shoulders, and turned to Jim only to see the man snatch up one end and return to the folding chair, leaning against his arm as he pulled the blanket around them.

Jim took the time out of his evening to stake out the rest of Sebastian's job with him, and Sebastian appreciated the gesture more than anyone else could ever understand. Jim didn't apologize with words. It was more than just pride, it was simply his nature. They were lonely, more than anything. No matter how much they tried to satisfy the hunger that consumed them, Sebastian and Jim would never be anything but alone. It was why Jim's appearance was so touching, Sebastian supposed. He wasn't making up for a mistake-- Jim Moriarty never regretted, never felt sorry, but he did understand that people needed comfort, needed reassurance, needed love. Sebastian Moran stared into the bleak, dark world on the other side of the window, and thought, above all things, there was one thing underneath Jim Moriarty's suit which he cherished most of all, no matter how little of it he was ever privy to, no matter how much of it was conjured in his own imagination.

His heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! :)


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